Shadow Play
by uncorazonquebrado
Summary: "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Macbeth


**A/N** One-shot, AU after 2x13

**Disclamier:** Gossip Girl doesn't belong to me

**Warnings**: definitely rated M for sexual content (masturbation, voyerism, violence, m/m/f, dub-con) and drug abuse. This sure isn't a happy-go-fluffy kind of fic, alright?! Consider yourself warned.

A big** thank you** to Robin for beta:ing this for me, and writing such amazingly inspiring fics.

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_"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing._

_(William Shakespeare, Macbeth)_

The open door allows the sounds of the ongoing graduation party to momentarily flood the bedroom; invading the dark space with the sounds of drunken conversations, thumping base and distant laughter. Hovering between the dimly lit corridor and the even darker room she is barely visible, a ghostly silhouette in the doorway before the door clicks shut behind her. Then she is once more clouded in darkness and the sounds from downstairs become muted, mirroring the numb state of her mind.

She stumbles through the room. Maneuvering inside the dark room isn't usually a complex act but the chemicals swimming in her blood has rendered her unsteady and disoriented. Over at the desk she pauses briefly, fingers hovering over the lamp switch of the antique lamp there as she battles with a decision usually so unconscious it shouldn't even be considered one. Then she wobbles in her heels, her thumb brushes against the switch and the decision is made for her as the corner of the room is flooded in light.

A sound of familiar movement tickles her imagination and she turns around in a hasty, uncoordinated move, the gasp escaping her lips reverberating in the distant thumping of the base. Unfocused eyes travel the corners of the room, finding the door still firmly shut and no one there, so she turns back to the task at hand. Second drawer to the right, underneath a letter that's been read a million times. Her trembling fingers close around the familiar plastic bottle and then she is unscrewing the cap in well practiced moves. The pills fall into her waiting hand - a sparkling white pile promising ignorant bliss - but she forces herself to pour most of them back into the bottle again. Dorota's been snooping around on strict orders from her mother and she can't afford to be wasteful. She swallows the three remaining pills dry - feels them stick and her esophagus work desperately to push them down - because she is being weak, weak, _weak_ trying to forget and so it shouldn't come easy.

Her head is swimming, a buzzing noise forming in her ears and she stumbles over to her bed and lies down. Her eyes are already closed as her head falls back against the pillows, one arm thrown casually over her abdomen. She shivers in her skimpy silk dress - a choice of wardrobe she used to associate with her blonde friend's drunken glory days but now finds oddly fitting - kicking off her shoes before turning to her side and curling up for warmth.

The sounds from the party grow more distant; minutes pass, maybe hours, she doesn't know and she doesn't care as she drifts in and out of consciousness on the bed. She doesn't feel the dip in the mattress, doesn't hear a thing, but suddenly knows with blinding clarity that he is there. Her eyes flutter open in shock in the same second he opens his mouth to speak.

"Hello, lover."

The words are so familiar, so loaded with memories, and she shivers for a different reason now. His voice thaws the ice in her chest like nothing else ever could, and she smiles weakly at the sight of him on the bed next to her. He is right _there_, lounging on _his_ side of the bed. The side she's thought of as his ever since those early days of sneaking around and hiding from the world; where he'd collapse after an afternoon of making her scream and pull her close, all whilst pretending it wasn't snuggling or anything even remotely close to it. Where he'd been resting that night after the funeral and with the pillow she'd buried her face in more times than she can count during the month he was missing after that.

"Chuck." There might be a slur to her voice, but there is no mistaking the amount of relief in her tone; the way his name fall from her lips in a thanksgiving sigh.

He is watching her intently, dark eyes slicing through all the carefully applied layers of pretense and pharmaceuticals right into her very core.

"Pills, Waldorf, really?" His voice is velvet, taunting her as his gaze roam over her body and causes her to shiver. "So very…plebeian." His beautiful lips purse in disappointment but there is an approving gleam in his eyes. No one has ever enjoyed the darker sides of her like he does. "But I guess I can't blame you for needing a distraction, dear Nathaniel can bore the best of us to tears."

Her eyes narrow at the mentioning of her boyfriend's name and he chuckles low in his throat. "I'm surprised he doesn't share his more aristocratic goods with you…" he continues, feigning pensiveness, but then smirks. "Actually, come to think of it, it's not surprising at all. Of course your precious Nate wants you mellow, pliant…to his service. The perfect trophy."

She wants to tell him to shut up but finds her mouth suddenly to dry to speak. "It really is such a waste," he murmurs, watching as her mouth falls open in a wordless whisper and her legs slide against the covers as she stretches out on the bed. "He could never handle the fire."

It's not a question and she knows it, shakes her head in accord. His words and the tone of his voice are bringing back memories from far, far back in her mind. Since words seem to fail her she'll have to show him instead; and her hand brushes over her abdomen slowly, her eyes never leaving his. That way she doesn't miss how he takes notice of what she's doing and the way the corner of his mouth tug into a smirk.

"So eager," he taunts her viciously, "Always so ready to burn for me."

Her hand never stopped moving and the way it skims over her breast as he speaks has her moaning softly into the darkness. "Chuck-" She reaches out for him, already imagining the sensation of his hands replacing her own, but something stops her and her hand drops to the cover of the bed.

He doesn't move, barely acknowledges the longing gesture, but the look in his eyes urge her to continue what she is doing. He cocks an eyebrow as her hand stops moving, offering her a lazy, amused smirk when her hand is once again moving between her breasts and the other one comes to rest low on her stomach; fingers drawing teasing circles against the delicate silk.

"So fucking sexy." He murmurs, eyes softening briefly before the steely gaze returns. The praise makes her bolder and her gestures rougher as she mimics the memories of his hands on her flesh. She bites her lip as she rubs at first one taut nipple through the fabric of her dress and then the other. Her head is swimming, the music and sounds from the party only a distant murmur in her head and her limbs are heavy and difficult to move. Basking in his attention, she slips the shoulder straps of her dress down her shoulders, touching the skin she uncovers.

She thinks he made a sound then, but wasn't sure the familiar, soft groan of appreciation was real or only a figment of her imagination; something her mind made up in a desperate attempt to pretend he didn't hate her anymore. He has all the reasons in the world to hate her.

Her hands movements grow more frenzied the more skin she uncovers. She stretches out on the bed, palming her breasts and teasingly sliding a hand down towards her centre. When her hand brushes over her sex her eyes flutter shut and the gasp that escapes her soon turns into a low, guttural moan as she repeats the motion. Slowly she forces her eyes open and turns to him; biting her lip as she arches her back and grinds against her own hand. He is so very still, and if it wasn't for the raw desire engraved in his every feature, she'd fear he wasn't enjoying this at all.

"I bet you're soaking," he drawls, and even though he hasn't moved she can imagine the way his breath would ghost against her skin if he spoke the words against her neck, gooseflesh appearing on her skin at the mere thought. "…that if I buried my fingers inside that pretty little cunt of yours they'd be drowning in your juices."

The idea that she should be appalled by the way he's speaking to her flickers in her mind but she can only groan in frustration; her hands still imitating the way he'd touch her and make her come screaming his name. She _is_ wet and aching for him. Memories are attacking her from every direction; recollections of hands and lips and feverish heat.

"…bet you're wishing I'd put my hands on you, remembering what they can do," he leers, and she nods her head meekly in response. "But you had to go and fuck things up." He muses, staring out into the dimly lit room. "How long did it take before you went running back to him?" All of a sudden the remarks of encouragement are gone, replaced with a barely contained anger; possessiveness burning in his eyes. "A couple of days? A week even?"

The bitterness in his voice is so fierce it feels palpable and she wants to tell him the truth so badly. Tell him that he is all she's ever wanted, all she'll ever want, but her mouth is opening and closing without a word falling from her lips.

"Look at you," He drawls cruelly; voice dropping an octave, down to that dangerous tone that is her undoing every single time. "You're so close already, Blair. I haven't even touched you and you're already falling apart at the seams. You better get used to it. I seriously doubt Nathaniel has what it takes to get you off, and I'll never put my hands on you again."

This time his words slice through her heart like a knife and she can feel tears begin to burn and squeezes her eyes shut to force them back. But there's still no denying the aching, throbbing need he evokes in her. "Please."

He laughs harshly and humorlessly at her plea, his jaw tight in anger but his eyes never wavering from her trembling form spread out on the bed. "Shut up." He snaps and she sucks in a breath, bracing herself for whatever he's about to throw at her. "The only words I want to hear come out of your mouth is my name when you come. Now fuck yourself, queen B, you're wasting my time." He throws out the old nickname dripping in sarcasm and scorn but she does what she's told anyway, unable to voice a protest and feeling like it's her atonement. As if obeying his every whim is the only way she can begin to apologize.

Wriggling her hips she pulls the tight fabric of her dress up to reveal her naked sex. Her dress is left in a bundle around her waist and she gasps, first as the cold air of the bedroom hits her skin, and second when she impatiently slides one finger down between her folds.

"No underwear? Such a dirty girl."

His words cut clearly through her moan of as her fingers find her clit but she is too lost in sensation to notice. She is quickly losing control, floating on a burning sea of lust and prescription pills, but is pushed back from the edge as the door opens and the sounds coming from downstairs once more filling the room and brings her back from the edge.

Her fingers briefly pause but are soon back to circling her swollen nub when she spots Nate in the door. He watches her in motionless silence for a few seconds before a lopsided grin splits his drunken features. There is not a lot left of the former golden boy Nathaniel Archibald to be found in the man standing in the doorway, casting a shadow over the girl on the bed. His shirt is untucked and wrinkled, his hair too long and his eyes glazed over from the cocktail of booze and chemicals swimming in his bloodstream. The laugh that echoes in the room as he lets the door slam shut behind him is also a far cry from the cheerful sound it used to be. It's nothing more than a humorless, cold imitation of joy that doesn't reach his eyes.

Blair can feel her heart sink like a stone inside her chest, pushing through the ice that returned to her insides at the sight of him. The idea that she is back with him suddenly seems so ludicrous it makes her skin tighten.

"You've started without me." Nate states, walking over to lean against the doorpost of her bathroom with none of the athletic grace he once possessed. He's on edge, jittery and unfocused, and there is a lack of control in his eyes that should scare her cold. "By all means, continue," he leers with a lavish wave of his hand, taking a swig from the bottle he's carrying.

"Seems like your boyfriend wants a show," Chuck states blankly, "if he only knew the kind of performance you can pull off."

Her only response is to moan softly, her breathing becoming more and more labored as her fingers quicken their pace. She soon loses herself in the jolts of pleasure shooting through her body and the sensation of his eyes on her. The sound of a zipper being pulled down echoes through the room and her eyes shot open. Looking over to her boyfriend her teeth worry her lower lip as she takes in his flushed face as he lazily strokes his erection. Her breath catches at the sight, a new rush of heat surging through her system.

"You like that, huh?" Chuck drawls, sounding less cold and distant; more like her version of him.

She can only let out a long, deep moan, fingers rubbing furiously at her clit as her hips buck against her hand. "Yes," she pants and can hear Nate's answering groan from his position in the doorway.

"So beautiful," Chuck murmurs and it's like pouring lighter fluid on a glowing fire. Her free hand slides down her quivering stomach and she pushes two fingers inside of her core, steadily moving them in and out.

"That's my girl."

"Chuck," she groans, her whole body is arching in his direction, begging for his touch. Her eyes flutter open to find him smiling at her. Those three words, eight letters so clearly visible in his dark eyes. But his name has barely left her tongue before the mood in the room is changing fast.

"No," Nate snarls and it's only her shock from realizing he's still in the room that diverts her attention from Chuck to her boyfriend.

Nate looks furious, eyes ablaze like a sea covered in burning oil. He moves quickly, crossing the room in long strides and ending up right beside her bed. "No fucking way!" He growls, and she shrinks on the bed. She makes a move as to inch away from him, but he is quick like lightning; reaching out and closing his hand around her wrist in a bruising grip.

"Chuck," she cries, taken aback when she realizes there are tears running down her face. Why is she crying? At the back of her mind she knows something is wrong, can feel the sickening churning in her gut.

"Shut up!" Nate hisses, and for a brief second she thinks he's going to hit her; almost welcomes the idea pain. Then he kneels behind her legs, and she is momentarily frozen in terror as she realizes what is about to happen.

"No." She is trying to wriggle free but his hands are everywhere and she can't get away. She is reaching desperately for Chuck with her free hand but he is out of reach, her hand finding nothing but the smooth silk of her bedspread.

"Why do you let him touch you?" Chuck whispers, and the overwhelming sadness in his eyes has her choking back a sob. This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. "You know how I feel about you, Blair. You _know_." His voice is hoarse and laced with pain, his hand reaching out for hers.

"I told you to shut up!" Nate growls against her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he locks both her hands above her head and pushes inside of her with a low, drawn-out groan.

Her soul is recoiling from his touch like a wounded animal, but her body - the traitorous thing, disoriented and numb - is arching up blindly against him. She can feel her orgasm building low in her abdomen. The cry that escapes her burning throat as Nate fills her to the hilt shatters what's left of her heart.

"You told me you _love_ me." Chuck chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and turning away from her to keep her from seeing the emotion on his face.

"I do," she sobs as her back arches up to meet her boyfriend's frantic strokes.

"Liar."

"Stop it! Look at me!" Nate growls, gripping her chin tightly and forcing her to meet his angry stare. "Look at me, Blair!" He repeats, kissing her roughly as he pounds into her over and over. When his thumb finds her swollen clit it doesn't take long before she is coming undone around him.

"Chuck-" She is barely aware of the way his name fall from her lips in a loud cry as she tips over the edge. There are no fireworks exploding behind her eyelids as she comes, no rays of lightning; only the feeling of falling freely through a darkened sky – a motionless silhouette falling and falling. She is barely aware of how her muscles convulsing around him bring Nate to his peak and how he comes with a grunt, collapsing against her.

Coming down from her high is like a fall ending with a crash against black, unyielding asphalt. She shivers and is brought back to reality by Nate cursing vehemently and getting to his feet.

"Damnit, Blair!" He yells, tucking himself back inside his pants and pulling a shaking hand through his disheveled hair. "You're so fucking messed up! When are you going to get it?!"

She does get it. Every lucid second she is undeniably, crushingly aware of reality and it is killing her. She is sobbing openly now, her entire body shaking with racking, shattering sobs as she curls up into a ball, making herself as small as possible on the big bed. She can't feel anything, and at the same time she can feel it all so clearly she fears she might implode from the weight of it at any second.

"He's gone! He…" Nate trails off, briefly hunching over in pain before he stands up straight again and the steel in his eyes return. "He jumped off a fucking building."

"No," she shakes her head through her tears, attempting to cover her ears to block out the truth. Chanting it in between gasping breaths as Nate opens his mouth to speak.

"He's dead." Nate states, his voice hoarse with emotion as he forces the truth on her. "Chuck's dead."

"No! He was right here!" She cries, hugging her herself tightly and willing the unwelcome heart beats pounding against her ribcage to stop.

"Fuck Blair," Nate scoffs, "You're so damn unstable". He wobbles on his feet, forced to take a step to the side to regain his balance.

"Get out," she cries, reaching out for her bedside lamp when he doesn't move quickly enough and hurling it towards him. The expensive lamp shatters against the wall mere inches from him, and Nate jumps.

"I said; get out!"

"You crazy bitch!" Nate howls, and there is a trickle of blood on his cheek from where a piece of the lamp grazed his skin. He touches the cut gingerly, and shoots her a murderous glare as he finds blood on his fingers. With a last, frustrated growl he pulls the door open and storms off.

Silence engulfs her as the door slam shut behind him. The darkness suddenly feels like a tomb and she struggles with the urge to call out for Nate and beg him to come back inside, beg him not to leave her too but knowing she doesn't deserve it. It's all her fault.

'_Why do you let him touch you? You told me you love_ me' echoes in her whirling mind. A broken sob tears its way up her throat and breaks the deafening silence. Once again crying desperately, she curls back up on the bed, burying her face in the pillow on_ his_ side of the bed.

It doesn't smell of him anymore.

FIN


End file.
